London Poet

Morning Coffee

I everyday run for the bus. Pouring out the café, a quick stream to the next leg Lateness a subtle concern, a moment ago leafing through Du Bouchet next slicing my shoulder to spud the oyster reader. Punctual to the bus stop, though the bus dropped me a couple minutes late…

It’s been a week and two days since I had an informal chat about punctuality. It may be 2-4 minutes, I maintain they’re negotiably mine. Hours I put in as a nocturnal volunteer forgotten.

This morning I’m on a slightly different route, with a homemade moka pot macchiato, I should be on time now. My time is my own.

I’m unsure about next week. Routine defiance I suppose. A temporal fuck you of four-five minutes. A statement of ownership. An affront to money & management’s side-eye.